


My bullet, my song

by AgentCoop



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Art, M/M, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Oaths & Vows, Slow Dancing, True Love, Wedding Rings, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:54:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22642945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentCoop/pseuds/AgentCoop
Summary: “Kid?” Max says, all quiet, and deep, and perfect, perfect, perfect. “You only have to say it, and I’ll be right there at the altar, ready to love you forever.”
Relationships: Max Lobo & Ash Lynx, Max Lobo/Ash Lynx
Comments: 38
Kudos: 33





	My bullet, my song

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Salmon95](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salmon95/gifts).



> The biggest thank you ever to [Salmon](twitter.com/sushisalmon95)  
> for putting up with me constantly talking about this, for talking back at me with a million and one amazing ideas, and for creating the gorgeous art that's in the fic!
> 
> Finally. The soft, romantic, MaxAsh wedding I've wanted forever❤️😭

**i. proposal**

The autumn leaves of the sad little poplar that stands outside their window have begun to shrivel, color leaking from them with every rustle of wind. Ash watches them from where he stands at the kitchen sink, watches as they ebb and sway with the frigid breeze that’s blowing through.

It’s only September, but New York City freezes faster than most–it’s heart unforgiving and unflinchingly cold.

“We could move to California,” Max said once, his arms wrapped around Ash’s waist, his nose tucked into the nape of Ash’s neck. “It’s always warm there. Always sunny.”

Ash had considered it, but only for a moment. He was born into East Coast life with the scent of the Atlantic thick in his nostrils, and he’s not sure any other ocean will do.

New York is filled with memories, some bad, some terrible. Some that only nightmares are able to recognize. But Max has changed all that, and Ash is determined to remake everything, now that he’s gotten another chance.

Now, as his hands plunge once more into the running water, the leaf he’s been watching finally gives in, crumpling in defeat and pulling it’s stem from the branch that birthed it, flying up, up, up, then down to the sidewalk below. It’s early for poetry–Ash usually only sinks deep into that when he’s had either far too much to drink, or far too little sleep–but there’s just something so beautiful about choosing to fall.

“Ash?” Max says, coming up behind with another plate. “I can do this. Why don’t you–”

“I got it,” Ash answers with a smile, scrubbing brush moving over and over the white plate. The kitchen still smells of salmon, one of those meals that tastes so buttery and warm, one of those scents that likes to permeate even the wood floorboards and take up residence.

Max puts the plate down beside him, and wraps his hands around Ash’s waist, exactly like they were during the California discussion. “I’ll do it for you,” he mocks, sing-songing right into Ash’s ear.

“You already cooked. You cook, I clean. I believe that was the deal we made last year when we got this place.” Ash’s tone is stern, but Max is starting to kiss at the nape of his neck, and he can’t help but smile. “Max. Come on!”

“I could do it faster…” Max says. “And then…”

“And then I’d feel obligated to cook for you tomorrow night. And about the only thing I can actually cook is–”

“A hotdog,” Max fills in, practiced in this routine.

“Oh, but my repertoire is more varied than that, old man,” Ash smiles.

Max nuzzles deeper, his nose pressed tight at the hollow of Ash’s throat. “You’ve been practicing? For me?” he whispers, mouth moving at Ash’s neck.

“Tch,” Ash sputters. “Hardly. I know how to make a mean pasta though. Griff taught me. Long time ago.”

“If Griff taught you, then I don’t want anything to do with it. That kid couldn’t cook to save his life.”

Ash laughs, nudging at Max with his head, turning just enough that Max lets him go. “I mean...he could make a really mean pasta. Some...well. Pasta.”

“I gathered,” Max says drily, leaning up against the kitchen counter with arms crossed. “Do go on.”

“And...some ketchup,” Ash says, smile growing bigger.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Oh, and about a quarter cup of sugar.”

“Oh for fucks sake, Ash, no wonder you’re a twig.”

Ash wets his hand in the running water, then flicks it at Max who dodges, but not quite enough. “I have it on good authority that I’m beautiful,” he mocks, wiping his hand down the front of Max’s deep blue sweater and stepping closer. “That I’m perfect. That I’m…” he stands right below Max, rising up on the balls of his feet so that their lips almost touch. “A catch,” Ash finishes, grin so wide it hurts.

“A catch?” Max asks incredulously. “A catch?”

“You are an old man. Figured you’d use that sort of lingo from time to time,” Ash says, then he reaches up and wraps a hand around the back of Max’s neck, bring him down for a quick kiss. “Now go do something useful. I need to finish the dishes.”

“I could help,” Max says again, unwilling to let it go.

It comes out before Ash realizes the power it even has–that momentum has been building and building until right this moment. “I’ll let you wash the dishes if you marry me.”

There’s a bit of a stilted pause where heat starts to rise in Ash’s cheeks, where Max freezes, completely still against the granite of the countertop, where the water runs rampant, filling the sink with warmth, and where the tree loses another leaf.

“I’m kidding,” Ash says quickly, grabbing for the plate that Max had put down just moments before. “I’m totally kidding, I–”

“Kid?” Max says, all quiet, and deep, and perfect, perfect, perfect. “You only have to say it, and I’ll be right there at the altar, ready to love you forever.”

Then he waits, still unmoving, knowing Ash well enough that he understands how important silence is.

Ash slowly reaches out and turns the faucet off, grabbing at the small hand towel that sits on the counter and drying his hands. It has a tiny rooster embroidered on the tot, and says _Rise and Shine Mother Cluckers_. It was a gift from Ibe, who found it in a little American shop, and laughed and laughed and laughed, as though it were the greatest joke in the universe.

Then he turns. Looks up into Max’s blue, blue eyes.

“Will you marry me?” Ash asks.

“I will.”

***

**ii. wedding**

For Ash, there is one point in his life that divides the two halves with the same sort of black and white clarity as the Franz Kline painting that hangs on their living room wall.

The first half lays dormant, flat across the x axis of the graph.

The second, is after Max.

This line starts to move, grow upwards exponentially–daylight, seasons, choices, change. This is the part of his life that makes Ash smile in the shower every morning, the part that surges forward at the back of his mouth so suddenly that he has no choice but to grab for Max, wherever he stands, and kiss him, kiss him, kiss him. This is the part that causes cheesy song lyrics to get stuck in his head for hours at a time until he’s tearing his hair out, clenching his fists, tapping his foot in time with an imaginary beat, and pissing off the tiny, feral kitten (who Max lured to the apartment with promises of food and milk) until she hisses loud enough to knock herself over.

The part before–that straight part–is the sort of thing that Ash pushes down, grits his teeth, wakes up at night with a scream already dead at the back of his throat. It’s the part he tries not to think about.

He’s in therapy twice a week now. Max insisted on it, and when Ash made a fuss, he went and signed himself up for sessions also. Different therapist–one specializing in PTSD in war veterans–but a show of love and support all the same.

Anyway.

The point is, there were two halves of his life, but now another point has been placed on the graph, indelibly inked by permanent marker, and now, there are three thirds. Before Max. After Max. And after “I do.”

They both wear dark navy suits, dark red ties, brown leather shoes. They both stand at the altar–walking out together, never one waiting for the other–and Ash has to look up into Max’s blue eyes, and Max has to look down into Ash’s green, and though Ash’s palms sweat too much, and Max keeps shrugging his shoulders back like he wants nothing more than to get out of the suit, it’s the most right thing in the entire universe.

There are five people in the room, including Max and Ash. They didn’t want to make a big deal out of anything. After a lifetime of noise, they just wanted a little bit of silence.

A small woman in a black pantsuit stands in front of them–her kinky hair piled on top of her head, her bare wrist etched with the curls of a tattoo that disappears up her sleeve. Her name is Jordan, and she’d insisted on meeting with them once before marrying them, just because she wanted to form enough of a bond that the taste of their names on her lips wouldn’t feel foreign.

Just beyond the door frame, a young woman stands with a clipboard, her bright red hair pulled up, her arms crossed. She’s the coordinator for the small art gallery, young, vibrant, excited. She’d lit small candles as they’d arrived, all up at the front of the large fireplace they now stand by, and these flickering lights crackle and pop in all the right moments.

And Ibe sits on a wooden stool, just off to the right, his arms crossed, one heel of his boot perched on the rung of the stool, eyes just barely wet.

They’re at the point where they are supposed to read their vows, and Jordan taps at their hands, clenching one another so tight they turn white. “Ash?” She says like she’s already said it once.

“Oh,” Ash says, swallowing hard and reaching for his breast pocket. “Sorry.”

“Ash would like to read his vows now,” she says in a voice that is deep and throaty.

He pulls out the sheet of paper, mangled and torn, looking a bit like a crumpled receipt, or long forgotten list.

Max barks a laugh, then claps a hand to his mouth as Ash glares. “Sorry,” he snorts. “That’s just...so you.”

“I could just not read them. We could move on to you. Since you already know me _so well_ ,” Ash snarks.

Jordan looks on fondly.

The heel of Ibe’s boot slips and hits the floor, a solid thump of sound.

Ash looks down at the paper, swallows once, then starts to read.

“Dear Max.”

Max reaches out with both hands and and takes Ash’s again, wrapping his fingers around Ash’s palm.

Clearing his throat, Ash starts again.

“Dear Max. For all the reading I’ve done, turns out I’m not much of a writer. I wanted to make this meaningful and instead, well.” Ash looks up again, and Max is smiling at him, always encouraging.

“Well,” he repeats. “As long as you keep cooking, I promise to clean the dishes. As long as you keep laughing, I promise to smile with you. As long as you keep standing, I promise to hold your hand. And as long as you keep living…”

Now Ash swallows, folds up the mangled little piece of paper and shoves it right back down to the bottom of his pocket. “I promise to love you.”

Jordan smiles at him and nods her head, then she turns to Max. “Max Glenreed. Would you like to read your vows?”

Ash’s heart is beating so hard against his chest he’s certain everyone in the entire room can hear it. He manages a smile, small, and nervous, and Max doesn’t reach for anything–just grabs Ash’s other hand and holds tight.

“Ash,” he says.

The flickering of the candles behind Max cast tiny lights on the dark blue of his suit, wavering and otherworldly..

“There’s got to be some way to say this, to write the words, to speak the words, to arrange the words, that they come out with the same feeling I have stuck deep in my chest. I’ve tried so hard to write you exactly what you deserve–something filled with magic, and hope, and dreams, and enough love to last us a lifetime.

But I’m not a poet.”

Ash gives a little laugh at this. “You think?” he says, squeezing Max’s hands.

Max just reaches up and toustles the top of Ash’s hair, sending his perfectly brushed blond strands into complete disarray. “I love you,” he continues.

“I love you, I love you, I love you.” He swallows, then squeezes Ash’s hands again. “A bullet without a body is a song without ears. I read that once, in a book of poetry that weighed more than words should ever have to.

You are my bullet. You are my song. You are my body, you are my ears. I can’t promise you anything more than what I have now. Myself, and my love. Ash? I’m forever yours.”

The room has frozen solid, stagnated into something desperately waiting for an answer, and Ash takes in a breath that sticks, clogging in his throat, prickling at his eyes. “And you don’t write poetry,” he tries, swallowing against the tears that are starting to bloom, and shuddering out a laugh. He reaches up, wraps a hand around Max’s neck and guides his head down, kissing him perfectly, sweetly, chastely, heavenly.

“We’re not supposed to do this yet,” Max says against Ash’s lips.

And Ash laughs again. “Sorry,” he says, letting go. “Sorry.”

Jordan just smiles on, then looks to Ibe. “May I have the rings?”

***

They say “I do.”

They sign the marriage license.

They need two witnesses, and they’ve only brought Ibe, so the girl from the venue stands there, eyes glistening still, waiting until she can bend over and sign her name as well.

**Olivia Zimmerman**

**Shunichi Ibe**

**Max Glenreed**

**Ash Glenreed**

There’s a tiny cake–they all share a piece. Vanilla, with vanilla buttercream, with vanilla custard filling.

_“You’re so insanely boring,” Max said to Ash on the afternoon that they’d sat here, picking it out. “Insanely!”_

_“I’ve had a lifetime full of excitement, old man. Let me have my vanilla.”_

And he did. He let Ash have everything.

Olivia pops a bottle of champagne, and Ibe, Max, and Ash have a glass while Jordan finishes their paperwork.

“Congratulations,” Ibe exclaims, cheeks already red from the small amount of liquor. He hugs Max first, then turns to Ash. “I’m so happy for you. You just…” his eyes flick up to Max, then back to Ash again. “You deserve happiness. Both of you. Congratulations.”

It’s quick after that. They’ve only booked the place for an hour. They’ll have dinner with Ibe at one of their favorite places a block away–a little hole-in-the-wall Thai place that reminds Max of California, and tastes like something new to Ash. Something to the right of his line graph. Something that’s still growing, up, and up, and up.

They’ll stand on the street, waving as Ibe sits in the back of a cab. He’s here for a week or so. Tomorrow they’ll meet him at Ash’s favorite coffee bar, and start the day like regular tourists, hitting every spot Ibe wants to.

The cab drives away.

The streets are full of people, because it’s New York City, and it’s always full of people.

“Come on,” Max says, smile playing on his face as he drags Ash across the sidewalk and underneath a soft patch of light that falls from the streetlamp above them. He pulls Ash close, wraps one hand around his waist, then reaches for Ash’s hand with the other.

They’re dancing–quiet and unpracticed, but slow enough that it never seems wrong. Their rings glint under the light, new, polished, ready for a lifetime of wear.

Then Max begins to sing.

The song is so soft, no one else can hear it. It’s barely the rumble of sound in Ash’s ear, the brush of Max’s lips against Ash’s skin.

And they sway like this, back and forth, back and forth, even the press of New York City chaos unable to move them. The notes of Max’s melody begin at his mouth and end at Ash’s ear, and they meant for absolutely no one else in the universe.

***

**Author's Note:**

> The line _A bullet without a body is a song without ears_ is from Ocean Vuong's 'On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous'. His poetry is absolutely exquisite and I can't recommend it enough ❤️❤️❤️
> 
> Find us on Twitter:  
> [Salmon](twitter.com/sushisalmon95)  
> [Coop](twitter.com/agentcoop1)  
> 


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